


Home Life

by Wicked42 - Spider-Man (Wicked42)



Series: Wicked's PS4 Spider-Verse [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hospitalization, MJ's dad is a jerk, Poor MJ, Protective Peter Parker, Whump, aunt may is a saint, physical child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 14:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18478234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wicked42/pseuds/Wicked42%20-%20Spider-Man
Summary: Maybe MJ shouldn't have stolen her dad's car, but she never imagined his violent response.Or: MJ is being abused at home, and Peter is having none of it.An AU of the PS4 game, since based on MJ's commentary inside that auction house, her dad is a pretty nice guy in that? Who knows. Now he's mean.





	Home Life

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about physical abuse to a teenager. NOT sexual. But still, proceed with caution! 
> 
> Based off this tumblr prompt: "Thinking about Mj stealing her asshole dad’s car to take Pete to the ER" by @marysjaneparker. [Found here!](http://marysjaneparker.tumblr.com/post/177906836527/thinking-about-mj-stealing-her-asshole-dads-car)
> 
> And then I just left the Peter whump behind and headed in a totally different direction with it. >.> Enjoy!

Life was full of irony.

 _It’s ironic_ , MJ thought, as her father’s hand flew towards her face, _that this only happened because I was trying to_ avoid _his wrath. Joke’s on me_.

Mr. Watson was a soldier, once upon a time. Before the alcohol, before the crippling debt, before his life “went to hell,” as he claimed. And if there was one thing MJ knew about soldiers, they hit hard and fast.

She braced herself, but didn’t raise a hand to stop it. The impact spun her backwards, and although she tried to regain her footing, she tripped instead, crashing into the coffee table. It splintered under her weight, slicing her arm, bruising her body, but nothing hurt as much as the agony spreading across her cheek.

Parents were supposed to protect their kids.

Yeah, right.

 

* * *

 

MJ skipped class the next day. Not because her father made her; he staggered off to work a rare shift at the bar, and her mother was busy on a double, desperately trying to keep the house. Her sisters bailed two years ago, and as soon as MJ hit eighteen, she planned to do the same.

But that was a year off, yet. So, with the bruise blossoming across her cheek, MJ pulled a hoodie over her face and ducked her head and slipped out the front door, not bothering to lock it behind her, not caring if anyone broke in and took their meager belongings.

She reached the intersection where she usually met Peter, then turned left instead of right. Towards the subway, not the school.

Peter texted an hour later, as she hunched over a textbook in the back corner of the library, flipping through what she _should_ be learning in class today.

_Hey, you okay? You never skip class._

Well, her father never dared to hit her in the face before. She should probably be grateful she got away with eight months of bruises she could hide. MJ stared at the text for a long, long time, then replied: _flu season. Get my homework?_

 _Sure…_ he replied. She put the phone down, but it buzzed again. _Can I bring you anything else?_

_Nah. Might get you sick too. Tell Harry I said hi._

Now she silenced her phone, because every time she lied to her best friends about this, the sick feeling in her stomach curdled a little more. It wasn’t Peter’s fault her father went batshit insane after That Night.

Nope. That was all hers.

 

* * *

 

Eight months ago, she took Peter to the ER.

He was bleeding in the leg. Gunshot wound, nearly a month before the Oscorp tour, the spider bite, the vigilante nonsense. And before the super healing. Peter showed up on her doorstep at 1:12am, hands bloodied and face white as a sheet.

And it was her fault.

She was the one who begged for her physics textbook back at nearly midnight. The one who said she'd walk to Aunt May’s house (and Uncle Ben’s house, at the time), even though Peter would never let her do that so late. When he offered instead, she almost said no, forget it, but this was the last extra credit opportunity of the semester, and her grade had just slipped to a C.

Her father didn’t approve of Cs.

Tense, she replied: _ok. Thanks, pete._

An hour later, Peter staggered to her doorstep, handed her the bloodied textbook with a strangled, "Here." Then his eyes rolled into his skull and he collapsed on her stoop.

So, yeah, she drove him to the ER.

Even though she only had a learner’s permit.

Even though the only car available was her father’s.

Peter wound up okay, thanks to her quick response, but her injuries were just beginning.

 

* * *

  

It took Mr. Watson three weeks to notice the dent. For those three weeks, MJ held her breath and walked on eggshells, spending more and more time at Peter’s house, an adorable brick townhome with a manicured lawn and flowery furniture. She pretended it was because of Peter’s injury (just a flesh wound, the doctors said flippantly, although she never forgot Peter’s whimpering as they stitched it up), and after he got a little better, she lied and said she just loved Aunt May’s cooking, Uncle Ben’s jokes.

Well, maybe that wasn’t all lies.

But at home, MJ’s mom was absent more than she was around, and her father’s drinking was starting to scare her.

It was only a matter of time until he walked around his car and noticed the scratch, or saw the blood she’d desperately tried to scrub out of the backseat.

“A matter of time” turned out to be three weeks.

The calm before the storm.

 

* * *

  

There were nights, hunched in her bed, shuddering in pain, that MJ wanted to blame Peter. Nights where anger swarmed with the injustice of it all, boiled to a point where she sobbed in frustration, which only aggravated her ugly bruises and cracked ribs. Nights where the agony was so bad, the blame game was her only coherent thought.

Peter was the one who got shot, so why was she hurting, living in fear?

Sure, she texted him, but _he_ was the one who borrowed her physics book that afternoon and forgot to give it back.

How did Peter lose both his parents and his uncle, and still wind up with a loving guardian and a safe home?

Why was he bit by that spider in Oscorp, gifted muscles and extra senses and healing abilities? She was on that field trip too.

There were nights, even darker, where she threw Harry and her sisters and her mother into the mix. Harry, with his plush lifestyle, who complained about his dad’s overbearing attitude, even though he was never physically beat, even though Harry had enough money to emancipate himself if he wanted.

Her older sisters, who left the second they turned eighteen, who moved out of the state and got married and still never bothered to call and check on her.

And her mother… well. Her mother, who _lived here_ and still pretended this wasn’t happening. Even when she came home from work to see her daughter’s blood on the carpet. Even when their house was in such shambles it looked like they’d been robbed, but it was just because of a man throwing his child around.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, _wasn’t_ _fair_.

But none of it would change her situation.

So MJ hunched further into herself, tears staining her dirty pillowcase, while downstairs, her father cracked open another bottle of whiskey.

 

* * *

 

One day, Peter noticed a bruise. It was after his spider bite, after Spider-Man was gaining prestige and Peter was gaining confidence as a result. They were walking home during bad weather, and a gust of wind lifted her shirt.

Not a lot. Just enough.

She shoved it back down, carried on with the conversation as if it hadn’t happened. Their junior year chemistry class was more than MJ bargained for, so Peter was explaining the difference between ionic and covalent bonds.

Except the moment her shirt lifted, he’d cut himself off mid-sentence. Peter _never_ did that when he started rambling about science.

Panic fluttered in her chest. Her mind screamed: _He saw. He saw the bruise. LIE._

MJ squashed the instinct, forced a smile instead. He might not have noticed anything. Maybe he just got distracted by old Mr. Monden, running around his lawn in the rain trying to collect the mail that swept off his porch.

“Okay, so how do metallic bonds fit in?” she nudged him, tried to realign the stalled conversation.

It didn’t work. Peter frowned, reached for her shirt, then recoiled at the last second and rubbed his arm instead. “Um… sorry. MJ, your stomach looked—"

“Well, that’s rather forward.” She rolled her eyes, quirked a playful grin. “Who knew our friendly neighborhood you-know-who has a sex drive after all.” It was a tried-and-true tactic: for all his bluster under the suit, Peter was _not_ good at awkward conversations like this.

So MJ made it as awkward as possible.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, like they shared some big secret. Well, a bigger secret than his extracurricular, anyway. “Truth be told, I ogle your stomach sometimes too. We really should hit the pool more often. Or, if you wanted to run around shirtless in the rain, I mean… I wouldn’t complain.”

A fierce blush spread across his cheeks, and the terror in her chest eased a bit. She had this under control. Maybe she couldn’t control her father, but Peter was harmless.

Until he said, “I m-meant the bruise, MJ. What happened?”

MJ’s heart stuttered. Literally skipped a beat. It had been months since the attacks started, and no one suspected a thing. And she planned to keep it that way, thank you, because her father warned her not to spread it around, or things would get _so_ much worse.

And she knew it was illogical, but—what if he followed through?

She couldn’t risk it. Right now, he only really lost his temper a couple times a month. The rest of the time, she lived a normal life. She was fed, clothed, sheltered. And when he left for work, she even allowed herself to relax.

So when Peter stared at her with that pinched expression, she shrugged and said, “Karate practice. You’re such a worrywart, Pete.”

And she readjusted her umbrella and continued walking.

 

* * *

 

 

She was five when her mother enrolled her in karate. MJ loved it; kicking and punching with the boys, learning to be stronger and smarter than all of them. Her mother was pleased, though little MJ couldn’t figure out why. All she knew was that Mommy was never home… unless it was time to drive MJ to her dojo. That, she never missed.

When MJ was eight, her mother added Thai Chi and Jiu Jitsu.

At eleven, Krav Maga.

“The world is cruel, Mary Jane,” she used to say. That was before the exhaustion, the numbness, the distant look in her mother’s eyes that became so prevalent in MJ’s teen years. “No one is going to defend you, so you need to do it yourself.”

Looking back, MJ realized what her mother was doing. But it wasn’t enough.

Teaching a kid to fight, then abandoning them to a monster could never, ever be enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Her father found the scratch early one morning, three weeks after That Night. Light was just beginning to peek over the squatting townhomes, and MJ’s alarm wouldn’t ring for another thirty minutes. Sound asleep, she didn’t hear his growl of anger.

She definitely heard when he kicked down her door, though.

The wood slammed against the wall hard enough to hang askew on its hinges, squeaking as it settled. MJ jackknifed upright in bed to see her father, chest heaving, veins throbbing in his forehead.

“ _You_ ,” he hissed. “You _stole my car_.”

Oh god. Fear hammered in MJ’s heart. _Lie,_ her instincts screeched, and she fumbled for something coherent. Settled on, “W-What are you talking about?”

He stomped into the bedroom and grabbed her arm, fingers curling around her bicep. Hard. In a microsecond, it passed alarming, uncomfortable, landed straight on _painful_ , and MJ yelped in surprise.  

“Don’t play dumb,” he growled, and hauled her out of bed in one violent move. It was like MJ’s mind was left on her pillow, because she couldn’t comprehend why he towed her to the door, shoved her through the hallway, watched as she tripped down the stairs.

She knew he’d be mad, but—but this was excessive.

Peter had been shot. Of course she drove him to the ER.

But as her father slammed her against the hood of his precious car, pressed her cheek against the cold metal, shoved a finger at the scratch left when she hit that lamp post, MJ had the cold, terrifying realization that things were different now.

Her father wasn’t someone to be respected.

Her father was someone to be feared.

 

* * *

 

 

MJ messed up. Her first response should never be meek, scared, submissive. Maybe she did that last week, but… but only because she was taken aback. Right. She hadn’t expected to be ripped out of bed, shoved against a car hood, and cornered in the garage.

She hadn’t expected her father’s temper to turn so violent, so fast.

Still, though, she’d gone through enough training. Screw meek and submissive. Her first response should have been defense. And barring that, _attack_. MJ relived the garage scenario a lot over the next three weeks. She identified where she went wrong. Where his weaknesses were. How she could turn the tides if it happened again.

It happened again, and this time, she was ready.

Or, she thought she was.

That night, she vomited blood.

Things were _so_ much worse when she fought back.

 

* * *

 

 

After that, MJ stopped going to karate.

Her mother didn’t ask about it.  

 

* * *

 

Peter was getting suspicious, and towards the end of junior year, it came to a head.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. First, the bruise he saw during that storm, then the “sick” call a few months later, and now… well, she’d definitely sprained her wrist during her father’s latest go. She’d tried to run—been a while since she’d done that, but he aimed for the face again, and she had an AP test coming up that she _couldn’t_ miss—so she ran.

He caught her.

And when two hundred pounds of muscle lands on your wrist wrong, it’s about as far from pleasant as heaven is from hell.

Still, easy enough to hide. It was her right wrist anyway, and she was left handed, so she just wore a really baggy sweatshirt with a deep pocket to hide the swollen purple skin, and adjusted her backpack with her good hand.

But the pain rolled off her in waves, and every move sent a flinch of agony up her spine. MJ tried to smile as she approached Peter at their meeting spot for the walk to school, but—well, it probably looked more like a grimace than anything.

Peter wasn’t the most observant guy, but he wasn’t stupid.

“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, tensing in that _I’m-Spider-Man_ way he did sometimes. (Yes, he always deepened his voice when he said that. And yes, MJ always laughed until he blushed redder than a tomato.)

Today, she didn’t feel like laughing. She couldn’t even hide the weariness in her voice. “Sorry. Slept like shit last night.” The lie rolled off her tongue; they’d been coming more and more easily the last few months, as Peter’s concern piqued.

After the bruise he saw, after her “sick” call, his questions were becoming more and more frequent. Now he frowned, opened his mouth to ask more.

And something snapped. Suddenly, MJ couldn’t handle it. “What, Pete? _What_? I swear to god, if you spend the day staring at me like that, I’m going to slap you. Or kick you somewhere you don’t want to be kicked.”

He blinked.

She took a step back. Where had that outburst come from? She’d just—she was so _mad_. Her wrist hurt so much, and Peter was prying, and… and it felt good to yell at someone like her father yelled at her.

Like her father yelled.

And if she yelled like him, what next? Following through on those threats?

Suddenly, MJ felt sick. Sweat prickled her forehead, and she spun on her heels. “S-Sorry. Maybe it’s that time of the month.” One final lie to clean up this mess. “I’m just gonna,” she nearly choked on the words, “go _home_.”

She wouldn’t go home. She never willingly went home anymore.

“MJ, wait—” Peter grabbed her shoulder before she could walk away.

It happened so suddenly that her mind howled _he’s back, he’s back for more, FIGHT._ And a scream tore from her throat as she slammed her fist into Peter’s nose.

He staggered backwards, looking more bewildered than hurt, even as a drop of blood slid down his upper lip. He wiped it away, his eyes never leaving hers, but MJ just squeaked in horror and _ran_.

But he was Spider-Man. Of course he caught her.

 

* * *

 

 

Her father was fast and furious, that first time.

Later, he’d slow down, engage in verbal arguments that always, always escalated. If she tried to remove herself, it escalated. If she defended herself, it escalated. If she protected herself, it escalated.

The first time, she didn’t know any of that. All she knew was that a golf club to the knees _really hurt_ , and even though it was nearing summer and the weather was getting sticky, she still wore jeans and a hoodie to hide the evidence.  

That day, she ghosting through school, forcing a smile past the new bruises on her stomach and legs. He beat her. He _beat_ her, and then he shoved her backpack off the porch and told her to get out.

Was she even allowed to come home?

… Did she want to?

Harry shoved Peter’s plate aside to make room for her at the lunch table, talking about the upcoming Oscorp field trip and whether or not Harry should arrange for Peter to have a wheelchair when he showed up.

Peter didn’t think that was funny, even though Uncle Ben still insisted he take a cane to school. (Peter found a pair of old, nearly-broken crutches in school’s utility closet instead. “Wasn’t like I was shot doing something cool or heroic. And anyway, these are less embarrassing than a cane,” he said. MJ rolled her eyes, even as guilt roiled in her chest.)

MJ eased into the space between her boys, swallowing a hiss of pain. Her hands shook and her milk almost spilled.

Peter steadied it.

Harry kept talking.

“I’m just saying, man. You wanted a front row seat. What’s more front-row than a wheelchair on a guided tour?”

Peter frowned, ignoring Harry with practiced ease. His hazel eyes settled on her instead. “MJ, are you okay?”

She almost answered honestly.

 _No,_ she nearly said. _My dad hit me. I messed up,_ you _got hurt, and then my dad attacked me with a golf club._

She nearly whispered, _I don’t know if I can go home tonight. Worse, I don’t know if I should._

_I don’t feel safe in my own house._

_Why did he hit me?_

She didn’t say any of it. Because before she staggered down the porch steps, tears streaming down her cheeks, her father grabbed her hair and whispered in her ear, “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll make you hurt a thousand times worse. Got it?”

She smelled alcohol on his breath.

Peter thought he could help everyone, solve every problem, but—he couldn’t help with this. So MJ forced a smile and plucked the milk from his hand and said, “Isn’t one of your fancy scientists working on prosthetics and limb enhancers? Maybe you should try that avenue instead of a wheelchair.”

Harry groaned. “Well, that takes all the fun out of it.”

Life as usual.

 

* * *

 

“We’re not gonna be there today, man. Just—make up some excuse, okay?” Peter said quietly into his phone.

MJ couldn’t hear Harry’s response, but she imagined it went something like, “ _You guys on a date without me? The nerve_.” If she wasn’t so sick with guilt and pain, she’d have told Peter to put him on speakerphone, just because she needed a laugh.

Instead, she just put her head between her knees, leaning against the grimy brick alleyway, and tried to take deep breaths so the world would stop spinning.

She’d punched Peter Parker. She’d fucking punched Spider-Man, all because he was getting too close to the truth. Because he touched her the way her father did, and she went into a blind panic.

And apparently her instincts are a lot closer to _dear old dad’s_ than she cared to admit.

Her neck burned with Peter’s gaze, but she was too humiliated to look at him. Too scared to face what was coming next. Peter had the power to destroy her entire life, and he might not even realize it.

“Yeah. Sure. But—later, okay?” he was still on the phone, still talking to Harry. It was a few minutes before homeroom, and Peter was standing with her in some random alley just a block from their neighborhood. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his problem.

MJ clenched her fists, but her right hand wasn’t responding properly, and her left knuckles itched from where the skin split on contact with Peter’s nose.

Because she _punched him_.

MJ trembled. What the _hell_ was she thinking? What the actual, goddamn hell?

“Thanks, Harry. Bye,” Peter said, and hung up.

Or MJ assumed he did, because her eyes had been clenched shut since she sank to the ground ten minutes ago. A scuff of asphalt, then Peter’s calming voice was near her ear, loud, but not close enough to startle.

She noticed he didn’t touch her.

He probably didn’t dare.

“Mary Jane,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

“What are the chances you buy ‘nothing’?”

“Let’s go with zero.” Despite the lighthearted response, his voice was strained. She peeked at the ground, knees pressed to her ears, and saw his scuffed Converse inches from her own boots. His left shoe had a hole near the big toe, and a winking Spider-Man face peeked out. Oh jeez, what a dork.

Her dork, who she _punched in the face_.

MJ’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean to…” She trailed off, because she couldn’t even voice what she’d one. _I didn’t mean to attack you without reason? I didn’t mean to hurt you, just to make myself feel better?_

_I didn’t mean to be so much like my dad?_

She couldn’t say that. Even if it was true.

“You were scared,” Peter replied, hesitantly. “I just… you weren’t scared of _me_ , were you? Did I hurt you somehow?”

Jesus. She ripped her head up, focused on his wide hazel eyes even as the world spun around them. “No, _no._ No, Pete. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?”

MJ curled into herself. She didn’t want to be here, having this conversation. Peter would tell Harry, maybe Aunt May, and Harry would try to solve her problem by relocating her, and Aunt May would insert herself somehow, and MJ just couldn’t _deal_ with so many people knowing what happened behind her front door.

 _Would it be so bad if they knew?_ Her mind whispered. _Maybe they can help_.

But it wouldn’t be help. Because in the end, she only had one place to go: back home. And her father made it quite clear what would happen if she told anyone. He wouldn’t care that Peter figured it out himself.

And Peter _hadn’t_ figured it out himself. He hadn’t. He just knew MJ was acting weird today, right now.

He didn’t know about her wrist.

He didn’t know about the fights.

So MJ did what she did best.

She lied.

 

* * *

 

 

She should have known she couldn’t lie well enough to deter Peter Parker.

 

* * *

 

 

Three nights later, the Yankees lost.

And MJ just so happened to be coming back from Peter’s place at the exact wrong moment.

It was rare he’d attack twice in one week, but—well, it had been a shitty week. The first attack happened because he got demoted at work, and blamed MJ and her mother, even though _he_ was the one stealing liquor from the bar. MJ’s mom was at work, but that was fine. He didn’t really care which of them he hit.

Over three days, Peter and Harry had watched her like hawks. Crazy possessive mama bird hawks, that was. Like they were waiting for her to either go insane, or break down in tears. Or both.

MJ bound her wrist in a janitor’s closet and glared at them as she ducked into the room for her AP exam.

She got a 4. Not bad, considering.

Then Peter invited her over for Aunt May’s pot roast. No one cooked at MJ’s house, not anymore, and MJ loved Aunt May. She strolled over to the house, and after a lovely meal and some cooperative homework on May’s well-loved coffee table, Peter walked her home.

They passed right by the grassy field where he accidentally interrupted that drug deal, where the kids shot at him to make him _go away_ , and one got lucky. But Spider-Man kept a pretty close watch on this neighborhood now, so it was safer than it’d been in years.

Peter still tensed when they walked past.

MJ tensed when she climbed her porch stairs.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said, glancing back at him.

He rubbed his arm. “Yeah. I know May loves when you come over.”

“I do, too.”

He still didn’t leave.

MJ quirked an eyebrow. “Got something to say, Parker?” She was afraid, suddenly, that he _might,_ and she’d been keeping conversations going for three days to avoid that. So, with a gushing, overly-fake voice, she deflected. “Wait, _wait_. Is this where you ask me to prom?”

“Oh. Um, m-maybe next year.”

Something in her chest hurt at how he breezed right past it. How, for that one second, she allowed herself to imagine wearing a gorgeous, strapless gown, maybe red to match her hair, taking Peter’s hand as he led her into the school gymnasium. And for once, there wouldn’t be bruises to hide, because what the hell. This was a fantasy, right?

Right.

Peter swallowed. “Listen, MJ. I wanted to—I mean, if something’s wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

 _No_.

“’Course I would.”

Inside, her father shouted at the TV, cursing the “goddamn Yankees.” His fury was palpable, and it took everything MJ had not to flinch.

Peter’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Are you sure? I just want to help, Mary Jane.”

 _He knows, he knows, he knooooows!_ MJ’s insides curdled, and suddenly she felt breathless, trapped between two different kinds of terrible. Go inside and face her father? Or stay here and wait for Peter to figure out her darkest secret?

Well, there wasn’t much choice in that.

“You should get home, Pete,” she smiled. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Without giving him time to answer, heart hammering and lungs constricting, MJ entered her house.

 

* * *

 

 

The ball game ended.

MJ’s night didn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

And then, somewhere between bracing for a hit and slamming into the kitchen counter face-first, a window shattered.

And a familiar _schwick_ echoed through the townhome. Ears ringing, blood trickling into her eyes, body aching and distant, MJ watched Spider-Man web her father to the wall.

 _No. No no no it’s over he knows and now_ _what am I going to do—_

MJ’s world went dark before she could yell at Peter properly.

 

* * *

 

She moaned awake in the back of an ambulance.

“—rescued by Spider-Man. Lucky lady,” one of the EMTs said.

“Sure,” the other replied, almost drily. “Lucky she screamed at the exact right moment during her _assault_.”

“I’m just saying—”

 

* * *

 

Someone was whispering words of comfort in her ear. Smoothing her hair, fingers drifting over a patch on her forehead. A bandage? She’d been bleeding from there, wasn’t she? MJ groaned, blinking hard as the overhead light swam into focus.

“Oh, thank god. Mary Jane, honey, I need you to look over here,” an older voice said.

Aunt May.

It took a long time to process what she said. Well, it felt like a long time. Might not have been longer than a few hours, though. Minutes? Whatever. MJ tilted her head left, feeling like she was a thousand years old and a million years sick.

“Follow this with your eyes, okay, dear?” She held up a stick. Brandished it like a wand, then waved it around as if she was a—a budding witch, or something.

Aunt May, a witch? She did kind of look like Professor McGonagall.

MJ giggled.

May’s expression pinched. Slowly, she lowered the stick. Was MJ supposed to be watching that? Oops. Too late now.

“Okay… Let’s try something else. Do you know where you are, MJ?”

Well, if Aunt May was here without Peter, there was a pretty darn good chance it wasn’t her house. Aunt May worked—where did she work? A hospital. Right. She was a nurse. No, wait, a physician’s assistant. MJ didn’t know the difference between them, but May had been doing it a long, long time.

“Mary Jane?”

“Hospital?” MJ slurred.

Wait. Slurred?

Fear ignited in her chest, but this time it had nothing to do with her father. Why was she so slow to respond? Why was she slurring words? Wait. Her father. Her _father_ , and Spider-Man, and the ambulance, and—

MJ moaned. “Where’s Peter?”

Slurred those too.

Aunt May’s expression became sympathetic. “Don’t you worry, honey. We’ll sort this out. No one will hurt you again.” She kissed MJ’s forehead, right next to the bandage. “Don’t go to sleep just yet. I’m going to get a doctor, okay?”

MJ didn’t stay awake for the doctor.

She didn’t want to stay awake for anyone.

 

* * *

 

It took two days to kick the concussion and feel like herself again.

Two days before anyone but Aunt May visited her hospital room. And then, the person who walked through the door wasn’t her mother, or Peter, or one of her sisters. No, it was Harry. His face paled when he saw her lying in bed—bound wrist, wrapped head, face swollen and body bruised.

It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Jesus, MJ. And I thought _my_ dad was bad.” The joke fell flat, and he crossed the room swiftly, setting a huge bouquet of flowers by her bedside table. It was so big it almost blocked the heart monitor, so he swallowed and relocated them to a shelf under the TV.

“Peter told you?” MJ croaked.

“I mean, May told me. But I kind of figured something was wrong when you missed school today. Again.” He swallowed, lowering himself into the seat beside her bed. She took his hand, and he squeezed. “All those times you moved like you were sore, or skipped school? Please tell me it wasn’t because of…”

Harry trailed off.

MJ didn’t have the energy to argue. Not anymore. She was so, so tired of lying.

Now that Pandora’s box had been opened, she just needed to ride the wave and hope it turned out okay.

“Shit,” Harry breathed.

MJ nodded. “Yeah. It’s been shitty.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“What for? Money can’t fix everything, Harry.”

His grip tightened in hers. “You were hurting. Jesus, MJ, we could have helped. You didn’t have to wait for fucking _Spider-Man_ to intervene. Pete and I would have done something. I swear, if I ever meet your asshole dad—”

MJ drew a shaking breath. The doctors found the scars. They knew her history of abuse. But even they couldn’t know the details of her personal hell, the stories behind every scar.

But when Harry said that, about her _asshole_ dad, some old, protective instinct flared to life. _Don’t say that about him_ , she almost snapped. Clamped her lips shut at the last second. Logic said, _why would you ever defend him? He’s a monster_ , but emotion whispered, _sure, a monster who took you to the zoo when you were six because you wanted to pet an anteater. A monster who loaded you up for a road trip at 3am just to watch the meteor shower. That monster?_

Yeah. That monster.

“I’m the one who scratched his car,” MJ said, then realized how that sounded. “He’s an asshole, but—I shouldn’t have taken the car.”

“Well, now that he’s in jail, you should _burn_ that fucking car,” Harry replied. “Just saying.”

 

* * *

 

Assault and battery.

A court date was set, and her father was locked away. MJ assumed she’d stay with her mother, now that their villain was out of the house, but when Aunt May drove her home from the hospital, they drove right past it.

Aunt May parked outside her own townhome, with its meticulous lawn and its homey flowers decorating the porch and warm light spilling onto the grass. She opened MJ’s door, but MJ didn’t move.

“I want to go home, Aunt May.”

May drew a deep breath. “I know, Mary Jane. But—your mother thought it best if you stay with Peter and I for a bit. Start fresh in a place with… better memories. Peter already brought over most of your things. Is that okay?”

MJ stared at her, numb. Spoke without thinking. “Do I have a choice if it’s not?” It came out harsher than intended, and guilt immediately coiled in MJ’s gut.

But Aunt May just sighed and reached past MJ for Harry’s flowers, perched in the backseat. “Your mother works long hours, and I don’t like the idea of you sitting alone in that house. But let me be clear, Mary Jane. You _always_ have a choice. If you want me to take you home, just say the word.”

MJ imagined sitting at the coffee table that once sliced her arm, trying to eat a bowl of cereal while she watched the latest sitcom.

Imagined crawling into bed in a dark, quiet house, cold with fear that her father might kick down the door again.

Imagined getting herself up for school, alone, staring at the kitchen counter and remembering vividly when her father spun her into it, gave her a concussion that lasted days.

She shuddered and got out of Aunt May’s car.

“T-Thanks,” she whispered, blinking back tears.

“We love you, Mary Jane,” Aunt May replied, and gently pulled her into a hug. “We’ll get through this. Okay?”

This time, MJ didn’t flinch at the contact.

 

* * *

 

Aunt May let her settle into her new room, the only spare space in their tiny townhome. Peter really had brought over almost everything. He even went through the trouble of hanging her posters and making her bed the way she liked.

Ironic he’d spend so much time on that, but he never once visited her in the hospital.

In fact, Peter still didn’t show up, not even after she took a long, hot shower, or after May brought up leftover chicken alfredo and a big glass of chocolate milk, or after MJ snuggled into her new bed and pulled her pillow to her chin.

No, it was only when the house went silent and dark and the tears came that she heard a tentative knock on the window.

She stiffened, spinning to see Peter clinging to the brick siding, dressed in pajama pants and—no shirt.

More exasperated than angry, she hauled open the window. “Is that you, trying to butter me up?”

“Butter you—” he cut himself off, glancing at his undeniably sexy six-pack. A blush deepened across his cheeks. “I’m not—I didn’t even think about—”

It’d be funny if MJ _so_ wasn’t in the mood.

“What do you want, Peter?” she demanded, scrubbing at her eyes. Trying to hide the evidence of real emotion. “And before you answer, remember that you lost the privilege to ask me if I’m okay.”

Peter slipped into the room, gracefully sliding off the wall. “How can I have lost that privilege? How is _that_ a privilege?”

MJ glared at him. She was tired of change, tired of pain, tired of drama. She just wanted to cry and sleep this awful week away, and instead, the cause of everything was staring at her, trying to start a dialogue.

So, yeah, her response was cutting, and more than a little sarcastic.

“You’re the genius. Figure it out.”

“So, what? I was just supposed to let your dad beat the shit out of you?” Peter kept his voice hushed, but there was real anger in his words. He clenched his fists, every muscle in his body tense and trembling.

Well, MJ was angry right back. “It wasn’t your place.”

“He could have _killed you_ , Mary Jane!”

“He’s done worse than slam my head against a counter,” MJ snarled.

Peter stiffened.

MJ froze.

Oh. _Shit_.

“H-How much worse?” he asked, voice deathly quiet.

MJ didn’t respond. The doctors had seen the scars, but—clearly Aunt May hadn’t told Peter everything. Clearly she was respecting MJ’s privacy, which meant it was MJ’s story to tell. And frankly, telling Peter sounded goddamned awful.

He was out there doing the superhero thing, getting hurt _way_ worse than anything her dad did. He fought for all the people of New York, and she couldn’t even fight for herself.  

Tears threatened to spill over her cheeks again, and MJ angrily wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I just want to be alone right now, Peter.”

“MJ, how long was that going on?” He didn’t even sound like he heard her. Maybe he hadn’t. She recognized that look, the dazed panic whenever he heard traumatic news. She just hadn’t seen it on him since Uncle Ben died. “How long was he hitting you? Abusing you?”

Because that’s what she was now, wasn’t it? A _victim_.

MJ loathed that fact. But she couldn’t change it. Her carefully-crafted life had ripped to shreds, and nothing would ever be the same.

 Who’s fault was it? Even now, MJ couldn’t tell.

“Please leave,” she said, as a tear trailed over her cheekbone.

Peter saw it, glistening in the distant streetlight, and choked on a sob of his own. Then he was gone, out the window and into the night.

  

* * *

 

Finding a new normal sucked.

But eventually, MJ got used to life at Aunt May’s.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after MJ got out of the hospital, Peter asked her to their junior prom.

The day of.

Classy, wasn’t he?

“That’s really sweet, Tiger, but… no,” MJ patted his arm.

He swallowed, wrapping up the little poster he’d painted with the question. It was clearly still wet—his fingers smeared some purple splotches when he swept it away. Wonder who gave him the bright idea to try this.

Bet it started with an “H” and ended with an “arry.”

“I just wanted things to go back to normal,” Peter said, hunching under her gaze.

MJ swallowed. “Me too, Pete.”

  

* * *

 

Peter went to prom.

MJ went home.

With dread wrapping around her throat like a vice, she climbed the porch steps, forced herself to unlock the brass deadbolt and nudge open the door. She braced herself, heart thudding in her chest, but the house was silent and empty.

MJ almost couldn’t make herself go inside. She had to forcibly remind herself that her father was in jail, that she didn’t _live_ here anymore, that this chapter of her life was over.

Closed.

It only made her feel a tiny bit better.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, there were signs her mother had been there. The window Peter crashed through as Spider-Man had a black trash bag taped over it. The coffee table was gone, and so was the couch her father used to pass out on, replaced with second-hand furniture that had nothing to do with their old lives. The beer bottles had been cleared away, and three wilting wildflowers sat in a glass jar next to the sink.

Almost like her mother was trying to make this place homey again.

It wasn’t enough to erase her mother’s negligence, but… it reminded MJ that she wasn’t alone in her abuse.

How often had her mother hidden bruises of her own? How many nights had MJ heard her father screaming, her mother whimpering? Suddenly, she had the same question Peter did: how long?

It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

 

* * *

 

 

Three hours later, when MJ’s mother staggered through the front door, MJ engulfed her in a hug. They talked until early morning.

Afterwards, MJ called Peter to pick her up and take her home.

Her mother waved from the stoop with a weary smile and an open invitation.

  

* * *

 

At school one day, MJ found Harry outside the bathrooms. She readjusted the books in her arms and said, “This is a weird hang-out spot. If you really hate the cafeteria so much, let’s try the library next time.”

Harry didn’t seem amused. He jerked a thumb towards the men’s side. “Pete’s in there.”

“And he requires your emotional support?”

“He does when he’s puking his guts out.”

Alarm raced through MJ’s body, and she straightened. “What’s wrong? Something he ate? Or is he hurt—”

“Physically fine,” Harry replied, brows furrowing. “At least, he was a few minutes ago. It was weird; we were talking about your dad’s car, and the burning party we’re so clearly going to have with it, and then he went like, super pale and ran.” Now Harry tilted his head. “Huh. Maybe food poisoning, actually.”

“You told him about the car?” MJ echoed, distant.

“Was that a secret?”

“Harry. What, exactly, did you say?”

He frowned. “I mean, just what you told me. You were pretty concussed, MJ. Thought scratching your dad’s car meant you deserved his Hulked-out rage.”

 _So Pete knows the car started this whole thing_ , MJ thought.

Harry kept talking, “Which is messed up, by the way. We should _definitely_ have that burning party. I’d be happy to rent out an entire city block for the event. Viral ads, live coverage, free booze, the works.”

A pair of kids walked out of the bathroom, laughing as they passed. “—hear that guy moaning in there? He sounds like he’s dying.”

“Right?”

They laughed again and vanished out the school’s double doors.

Harry grimaced. “That’s my cue. Don’t wait up.”

He strolled into the bathroom, leaving MJ numb and shaking.

  

* * *

 

It took her four months to change her mind. That was two months after Peter stopped asking, three months after everyone stopped looking at her with curiosity or sympathy. One month after her new normal became just that: normal.

Aunt May was working a late shift, and Peter came back from patrol to find MJ sitting at the kitchen table, twirling a quarter across the lacquered wood. He stopped short, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “Um, new late-night extracurricular?”

“It takes a lot of skill,” MJ replied, flicking the quarter again. It skittered off the table, and he caught it with one hand and impossible reflexes.

“Nice,” MJ said.

He tossed it back to her, then drew a breath. “Well, I—I guess I’ll go change.”

“I’ll tell you everything, if you want.”

He stopped short, staring at her.

MJ flicked the quarter again, watching it spin across the table. “What? You wanted to know. I’ll tell you. But only if you swear you’ll stop acting like I’m one joke away from shattering into a thousand pieces. Deal?”

He surprised her.

He always surprised her.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

She snorted.

Peter cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck. “No, seriously. MJ, it was wrong of me to ask for any details. I’m really sorry.” He drew a shaking breath. “I just kept thinking of—of that night, how you only took that stupid car because of me, and I was so devastated, and I thought knowing more would make me feel better. But it was never about me.”

“No, it wasn’t.” MJ raised her head, met his gaze. Offered a sad smile. The quarter slowed, spun a few times along the rim, then settled on the table. In the resulting silence, she added, “But you saved my life.”

It took a long time to realize that’s what he did.

Weeks of violent nightmares, of watching her father’s court date inch closer and imagining his rage when he was released from jail. Of thinking Aunt May might get tired of feeding an extra mouth and shove her back into that empty house, with those bloodstained memories haunting her every move. Of MJ living in fear again, waiting for the moment her father broke down her bedroom door.

But last week, she wore a strapless sundress into the city. Her skin was scarred, but clear. No bruises. No pain.

She and Harry and Peter hunted for the best pizza place in New York, and it felt fucking fantastic.

She couldn’t forgive Peter for everything—the stress of his questions, the fact that she had to placate _him_ instead of the other way around—but he cared. Not every guy in her life did.

“You deserve to know. If you want,” she said.

Peter, still up to the neck in his spider-suit, eased into the opposite chair and whispered, “Okay.”

“Okay.”

And MJ told him everything.

  

* * *

 

Seven years. That’s all the jail time her father got. For what he’d done, it wasn’t enough, but it bought MJ enough time to grow up without a cloud of fear hanging over her. High school graduation. College romance. Pursuing her career.

At 22, just before MJ’s breakup with Peter, her mother moved. She purposefully didn’t tell MJ where she went, though MJ suspected it was somewhere near her sisters, both of whom had kids now.

She couldn’t blame her mom for running. There were days MJ had the same panicked instinct, watching his release date tick closer.

She kicked up her martial arts studies. Relearned old things, made sure her self-defense really was committed to muscle memory this time. Late at night, when she admitted her fears, Peter held her almost too tight and swore he’d never get close.

Some nights, she believed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Nine months after he was released, she stepped out of the Daily Bugle to see him waiting for her.

After all this time, all the enemies she’d faced, all the terror she’d endured, MJ’s breath still caught in her throat. She froze, suddenly faint with fear. It was stupid, illogical. He had no pull over her now. There were security officers at her back, patrolling the building, and Spider-Man could be here in moments if she used the stupid SOS button he insisted she wear.

Her hand twitched towards the innocuous bracelet. Maybe Peter was being a little paranoid, but—she had no intention of cutting her life short at 25.

Across the sidewalk, her father didn’t move.

“What do you want?” she asked, forcing a far stronger voice than she felt.

He stared at her, shook his head. “Your hair is longer.”

“That’s what happens when you’re locked away. Life moves on.” It was daring, the kind of snarky tone he never would have tolerated in her teens. But she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She didn’t live with him, didn’t owe him anything.

And still, her heart hammered as he considered her words.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said.

She waited. Waited for the excuses that inevitably followed an apology, the half-assed defenses jerks used to make themselves look better even as they asked for forgiveness. But her father said those two words and… stopped.

He stopped.

MJ’s fingers fell away from her bracelet, untouched.

“Oh,” she replied.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m moving to Tucson. Got a job out there laying down roads. Weather should be nicer.” He shrugged.

Should she believe him? Was he really leaving? Life couldn’t be _that_ good, could it? In all her scenarios, all the panicked moments she was certain he held a grudge, she never once imagined he’d take a voluntary leave.

Before she could formulate a reply, footsteps pounded up to her, and a familiar voice panted, “MJ, wait! I’m here. Sorry I’m late.” Peter. She didn’t accidentally press that button, did she? But no, then he’d come as Spider-Man, not her boyfriend.

And yet, here he was. Gulping air, he stopped almost shoulder to shoulder with her, the closest any man was allowed to get without a fist to the throat.

All thanks to the guy in front of her. MJ held her father’s gaze, but told Peter, “It’s okay. I was just leaving.”

“Parker,” her father said, steadily. “Surprised you kids are still dating.”

“Surprised you’re out of jail,” Peter replied, coldly. He wrapped an arm around MJ’s waist, offering comfort and stability. A united front.

Because MJ didn’t have to do this alone anymore.

“Are you married?” her father asked, almost tentatively. “Kids?”

“Not that you’d meet them—” Peter snapped, but MJ cut him off.

“No kids,” she said, but raised her left hand to show the silver band glinting in the evening light.

Her father smiled. “You deserve it.”

Peter bristled, but kept his mouth shut. This was MJ’s conversation, and he knew it.

“I know I do,” MJ replied. Her insides coiled, like watching a snake waiting to strike, but she forced herself to smile, as if they were two people having a pleasant conversation. “Have a good life in Arizona, Dad.”

She gave Peter a subtle nudge, and together, they turned their backs on her abuser.

  

* * *

 

“How did you know he’d be there?” MJ asked, once they were three city blocks away and she could breathe again. She pressed closer to Peter’s side, close enough she could feel the raised webbing under his loose t-shirt. He’d come for battle.

She kind of appreciated that.

“I mean, I have his tracker set to alert me whenever he gets within a one mile radius of you,” Peter remarked.

MJ balked, glancing up at him. “What? You nerd.”

“Like I’m just _not_ going to hack into the parole database and monitor his anklet? Come on. And to be fair, you track me too,” he tapped her cell phone, still in her pocket, and smirked. It sobered quickly. “I’m sorry he found you.”

“I’m not.” MJ drew a deep, cleansing breath. Her hands still shook from the encounter, so she gripped Peter’s arm tighter, but—she felt good. Better than good. “I knew he’d find me again. And that was really my best-case scenario. Thanks for showing up, though. It was… easier… with you.”

Peter kissed her hair. “You could have taken him.”

“I know. But I’m glad I didn’t have to,” MJ replied.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Peter showed MJ a small dot flashing on a virtual map.

Tucson.

“Transfer paperwork from his parole officer, his new parole officer’s information, and his Arizona address, if you want it.” Peter opened a few more windows to show the supporting documents. He twisted to face her, leaning over the couch. “He’s gone, MJ. For good.”

MJ waited for relief to settle into her bones. Waited for some kind of cosmic confirmation that her plight was indeed over. But although he’d ruined her teen years, she’d spent a lot more time building herself back up.

Now, she just felt smugly satisfied.

“Kind of ironic that I’m the one who lasted here, isn’t it?” She reached over Peter to close his laptop. She didn’t care about any of that information. Her father was old news.

Peter laughed. “I don’t think that’s irony at all. That’s just you, being a badass.”

MJ grinned.

“Sure is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, I almost titled this one "Hurting MJ," just to be confusing as hell. XD
> 
> HI GUYS. I WROTE SOMETHING FOR YOU.
> 
> Ahem. In my defense, my free time has been like, absolute zero since I moved. And now we're listing my parents' house for sale, so don't expect much from me over the next few weeks. T.T Maaaaybe one more oneshot in April, if I'm really hauling ass. I should have a lot more time over the summer, once the house sells. :D 
> 
> I'm honestly not sure if I should make this canon in my little self-owned Spider-verse. I wove the story so the other pieces COULD fit nicely, but this is a pretty dark backstory for MJ, and after that serial killer, I'm not sure I want to do that to her. Poor thing is gonna be rocking in a psych ward soon enough. O.o What do you guys think? Include it with my other fics, or not?
> 
> Love love love you guys!!! (Also your reviews. Love them too. :D )


End file.
